


Saving Grace

by solversonlou



Category: Pilgrimage (2017)
Genre: Age Difference, Frottage, Historical, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-13 05:12:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15357009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solversonlou/pseuds/solversonlou
Summary: "You are a good man," Diarmuid tells him, eyes soft, warm in the light of the torch flame. His free hand presses to the warmth of the Mute's bare chest, the thrum of his heartbeat radiating through his palm, his robes discarded on the ground. "I feel closer to God when I am with you."





	Saving Grace

His vow of silence is unbroken, even when Diarmuid's fingertips are pressed gently to the curve of his cheek, the boyish smile on the younger one's lips awakening something within the depths of his very being.

It had been years since the Mute had felt such a devotion towards him, and at first, he'd felt unworthy. How could he deserve the undivided attention of someone so pure and untouched by the horrors of the earth as Diarmuid was? How could he let the boy take his hands in his own, the same hands that had been stained with the blood of boys not much older than Diarmuid himself? How could he let him pray for him, his lashes dark against the soft white of his cheeks, lips moving softly as he speaks the tongue he has little understanding of?

Time, as it heals many wounds, undoes the feelings of guilt that plague him, and the trust that Diarmuid puts in him grows with each passing day they spend at each other's side. Diarmuid's prayers become clearer to him as he learns the language that the monks speak amongst themselves, his soft words a comfort when the bloodshed of his dreams strike him in the dead of night.

Despite the trust and the devotion, he does not speak. He listens, observes, taking in the lines of Diarmuid's face as the boy blinks up at him from his resting place on the small cot in his quarters.

The calloused surface of Diarmuid's thumb, grazed from their time spent together on the beach, digging for sea life, strokes across his upper lip, and he doesn't speak, just lets out a shaky breath of air, warm against Diarmuid's hand.

"You are a good man," Diarmuid tells him, eyes soft, warm in the light of the torch flame. His free hand presses to the warmth of the Mute's bare chest, the thrum of his heartbeat radiating through his palm, his robes discarded on the ground. "I feel closer to God when I am with you."

His words would be blasphemous to the ears of his brothers, but Diarmuid will not lie to the man about his feelings, not after everything that they've shared.

"You are my saving grace," Diarmuid whispers, the length of his pale neck craning up, nose bumping against the older man's as he bridges the space between them. "I love you."

Diarmuid's lips are soft, ever so gentle as they press against the Mute's own, and he slides his eyes shut almost immediately at the touch. 

His broad, calloused palms find purchase on the younger man's slighter frame, sliding across supple skin that grows warmer with each passing touch. He remains silent as always, but the press of Diarmuid's thighs against his as he climbs atop him, and the heat of his mouth, leaving him rolling back against the feather stuffed bedding.

Diarmuid's cock is heavy against the meat of his thigh, and he takes it in his palm, drawing out short, little gasps from him, ones that get lost against his lips. His fingers are used to the chores of every day life, but this is not a chore, not for him, thumb stroking over the head of him, already leaking.

The sun is rising, filtering through the fabric of the tent, and Diarmuid's seed is wet, sticky against the muscles of the Mute's belly. Diarmuid's short, desperate little groans are muffled in the crook of his neck, and the Mute thinks that perhaps they are as beautiful as the prayers that he recites for him.

His mouth grows slack as he spills across Diarmuid's knuckles, the only sound escaping him the shaky exhales of his breath. His fingertips dip into the curve of flesh of Diarmuid's back, and the thoughts of the Lord's teachings, his disapproval of such sins of the flesh, are absent in his mind. Instead, all he thinks of is the scent of Diarmuid's hair, kissed by sea salt from their time on the shore, the crown of his head tucked under his chin.

"Thank you," Diarmuid speaks after a short while, hand splayed across the older man's broad chest, temple resting against his shoulder. He smells like firewood and sweat, a comforting scent as Diarmuid presses his lips to his breast bone. 

He doesn't speak, words remaining empty, but the warmth in his chest blooms and his hand moves to cradle the back of Diarmuid's neck, holding him as close to himself as earthly possible. 

It's enough for Diarmuid, who asks him to stay a little longer. The brothers won't be up for a while, and Diarmuid is so at peace, laying there against him.

His answers are his lips, pressing a kiss to the soft brown curls atop Diarmuid's head, fingertip running down the expanse of his spine. He doesn't break his vow of silence, but Diarmuid can feel the letters, spelling out their purpose. _"I love you."_


End file.
